


world of his own

by doop_doop



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Established Relationship, M/M, Painting, Post-Canon, Post-Game(s), Spoilers for Ignatz/Cyril B support but nothing else
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-08-23 20:23:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20213266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doop_doop/pseuds/doop_doop
Summary: “I'd love to see Almyra some day. Cyril, after the war, would you go there with me? We can make some memories of your homeland that aren't all dull and lonely!”-Ignatz, in his B support with CyrilCyril and Ignatz finally go to Almyra together, and Cyril muses on why he is so fond of this strange, impractical person.





	world of his own

**Author's Note:**

> I'm Blue Lions but I recruited Ignatz, so I didn't actually get all that many supports with him. I loved his and Cyril's, though. Ignatz could be a parody of himself (gushing about a puddle and so on), but he isn't, and I appreciate that.
> 
> no spoilers here, because I haven't finished the game yet :)

It had been a while since they’d fought as soldiers; Cyril was still in shape, but Ignatz was not. Cyril had to hold himself back from rushing up the hill and leaving Ignatz behind. More infuriatingly, Ignatz took his time not only out of necessity, but also as a deliberate choice - every now and then he’d stop to point out a plant or a bird he’d noticed, not moving on until Cyril had acknowledged it too.

Finally, they reached the top. Almyra was desolation - barren, grassy hills, and absolutely nothing else as far as the eye could see. The sky overhead was too bright, without even a single cloud to temper it, and glared harshly off the pale grass. Cyril decided that it was far more satisfying to look at Ignatz. At first he only grinned, speechless, and turned to see the view from every angle; when he did speak, his voice had gone loud with excitement.

“It’s such a unique landscape! I’ve never seen anything quite it - it truly is marvelous. I don’t know if I’ll even be able to decide what to paint. The hills truly seem to stretch on into eternity.”

Too busy looking out, he failed to look down, and he reached the beginning of the hill’s slope, losing his balance; but Cyril caught his arm before he could fall. Ignatz looked at him at last, eyes sparkling. He was actually  _ tearing up, _ Cyril realized. What kind of person cried when they saw a landscape? 

“Thank you,” Ignatz said, smiling broadly.

“Be careful.”

“I’ll make an effort! I don’t want to cause you any more problems!”

How come Ignatz always had to turn around and make things about Cyril?  _ He  _ was the one who’d almost gone head-over-heels down a hill. Cyril shook his head - there was no use trying to talk sense into him; it was a good thing he’d been there, was all Cyril could say. 

“I used to come here sometimes when I was a kid, just because it was the tallest hill around,” he said, changing the subject. “Nothing to do around here but just look out, really.”

“It’s certainly an impressive view,” Ignatz said. “Thank you very much for bringing me here. And for… for being patient with me.”

The truth was, Cyril wasn’t being patient with Ignatz. He didn’t  _ need  _ to be; Ignatz somehow did not try his patience at all - not even when he spent twenty minutes watching a butterfly or stopped every ten steps to pick a flower to press. Not even when he used up too many candles, reading late into the night, and Cyril had to buy more. 

Cyril did not like unreasonable people, but he did like Ignatz, and that was very confusing.

“I’d better choose what to paint quickly, or I could spend all day just looking out,” Ignatz said. He wavered between two angles, even using his hands to frame the possible pictures, forefingers and thumbs forming two L shapes. Then, once he had decided, he took out his easel, set up his canvas, and got to work.

Cyril had carried everything up himself, the easel and bag of paints strapped to his back. Ignatz had offered, of course, but Cyril had insisted on doing it alone. He knew he was more stubborn that Ignatz was, and he was right: he’d gotten his way in the end. 

It was only logical, though! -They would have taken longer getting up the hill if Ignatz had been carrying his share. And Ignatz got tired more quickly - he had gotten out of shape since the fighting had ended and his life had gotten more sedentary. (The truth was, Cyril didn’t mind that, either. It was a victory, somehow - that Ignatz did not have to be a warrior anymore, that he could lose muscle without feeling like his life was on the line for it.) The equipment wasn’t heavy, anyhow. It was no burden.

Ignatz was in his own little world now, hard at work. He sketched the landscape before him with a deft hand, barely looking down at the canvas. He always seemed so wonderfully unguarded when he did this; his face scrunched up into a look of intense concentration, and sometimes the tip of his tongue stuck out. Cyril did not know how one could see him this way and not laugh - but he did not laugh openly, because he knew if he did so Ignatz would not paint in front of him anymore. He was terribly fond of that expression, and did not want to be deprived of it. 

When Ignatz finished sketching and began to paint, that was always Cyril’s favorite part. He got to see whatever Ignatz was looking at get transformed into something beautiful. Why trees and rocks and rivers always looked so much better when they were on the canvas, Cyril didn’t know. In real life they always looked so bland, so ordinary. Nature did not keep his attention long, but he could stare at one of Ignatz’s paintings for ages. And to watch them be created - that was the best of all.

Ignatz had been a little nervous the first time Cyril had asked to watch him, but he had eventually realized Cyril was being completely sincere about the entire thing. “You can watch,” he’d said, “but only if you stay completely silent the whole time. Please don’t comment on my painting as I’m working on it!” 

For Cyril, it had been an easy bargain to make. He could still remember the first time he’d observed Ignatz painting, years ago, back at the monastery - it was a painting of the lake, calm and flat as a mirror and lit up fire-red by the sunset. Ignatz had done it in a little over half an hour, working fast to finish before the light disappeared. 

Cyril kept that picture even now, although they could have sold it - maybe should have sold it - but he had to afford himself some luxuries now and then, and this was a keepsake. One could not frame a first date or a first kiss, but this, this he could keep in physical form, and it was just as important to him. He looked at it sometimes, and that day came flooding back - Ignatz’s breathtaking skill with the brush, Cyril’s mute amazement. It had gone from a normal, everyday sunset to something delicate and incredible. From that moment on, Cyril could not get enough.

And Ignatz did not seem to mind. The attention was flattering, probably - even after he was selling every painting at prices that made Cyril’s head spin, Ignatz was always humble about his skills. But having someone watching you paint, drooling over your art, it was probably a good ego boost, and if anyone needed an ego boost, it was Ignatz.

And maybe he liked Cyril’s company. He let Cyril speak while he painted, these days; Ignatz knew Cyril well enough by this point to understand he was not about to tease him about his paintings. 

“I don’t know why you chose to paint that particular bit over any other,” Cyril said. “It all looks the same to me.”

“There’s something striking about the shadows cast by that little patch of forest,” Ignatz said. “The sharp vertical of the shadows against the curve of the hill...”

Ignatz kept going, explaining his logic in detail, but Cyril knew he would only understand when he saw it on the canvas. Then, somehow, it would all make sense, and the world would be transformed, as if by magic, into something beautiful.

When Ignatz was done speaking, Cyril leaned forward and kissed him.

“You weren’t listening to me at all, were you?” Ignatz said, laughing as he pulled away. “You tuned me out within the first five words, I’ll bet.”

“I tried to understand,” Cyril said. “I just have to admit, I don’t get art.”

“You ‘get art’ just fine.”

“But all your fancy words, I don’t get those,” Cyril said. “The only thing I understand is the art itself.”

“Then stop asking me questions and watch.”

“Okay,” Cyril said, only too happy to obey. “Go on. Don’t let me distract you.”

And Ignatz wouldn’t, he knew. He was already gone - off in his own little world, his gaze turned wholly to the work at hand; his face took on its familiar, comical look of concentration. And Cyril, watching him in the harsh late-morning light, had never loved him more.

**Author's Note:**

> [twitter](https://twitter.com/doop_doop2)


End file.
